Long Lost Friend
by Baby-Ayatane
Summary: Something went wrong after the battle with Saddler. Leon failed. To protect both him and Wesker's shaky trust in her, she was forced to place the agent in his care. Leoon was saved, but he was no longer the Leon that she fell in love with. He was no longer the Leon Chris Redfield had become friends with. (This is a rewrite. The full summary and ntoes are insde.)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes—Please read before continuing! **

**This is a rewrite of a fic that was inspired by a prompt on the kink meme and snarryvader's ****Pet.**** Go read it if you have the time! **

**(I have her permission to post this.) **

**I think (hope) that I've improved by then. Reading over the original, I was cringing and cursing the whole time. Surprisingly enough, despite my distaste for it, it generated some interest, and I decided that I would rewrite it and post the new version. The problem came in the form of what direction I wanted to take the new draft. I rewrote the whole thing a ridiculous amount of times. I scrapped some chapters from the original. I added some chapters to the original and reworded the already existing chapters. **

**And then, I eventually table flipped, reread the whole thing, and decided that I would combine all of the chapters into one and just make it better. Voila. Enjoy. Please don't hesitate to tell me what you think. Suggestions are always appreciated. Again, I stress that you ****leave a review**** if you read the whole thing. Even a sentence is fine. Just let me know that I'm not posting this without a reason. **

**Also, FF doesn't like my page breaks. I've tried everything, and they usually never show up. I'm hoping that the ones I've used this time will work. However, if they don't and they're blaringly unnoticeable, I'll do my best to fix them. Otherwise, I don't think it will be too hard to tell when one scene has cut to another. **

**Summary**: Something went wrong during the battle with Saddler.

Ada was there to pick up the pieces.

To protect both him and Wesker's shaky trust for her, Ada was forced to retrieve agent Leon Kennedy and place him into Albert Wesker's care. Wesker ensured that the man was nursed back to full health and beyond, but the new Leon is not the Leon that Ada fell in love with.

The new Leon is not the Leon that Chris Redfield became friends with.

Eight years ago, Chris was told that Leon Kennedy died protecting the president's daughter. He was never told why there was no body.

**Warnings**: Slight AU (RE5+), major head-cannon, language, slash, het, polyamory and character death in the future. Some characters may be OOC due to their situation.

**Disclaimer**: Resident Evil is not mine. I own only my original characters and the situations I've put the whole cast into. **This will be my last disclaimer for the whole story. **

**Shoutouts: ****Thank you so much to the people who actually read the original and told me what they thought. You are part of the inspiration for this repost. Also, a big thanks to snarryvader for inspiring me and giving me permission to post it in the first place! **

**-l-**

Leon's groan of lost spirit was haphazardly muffled behind his mask.

"I don't—how did this even come up?" There was no living person on the planet who was as disgruntled as he was at the moment. The man asked too many questions. The source of his hopelessly frustrated confusion cackled, a dark note of wickedness flavoring what would have been an oddly endearing thing to hear in another life. Leon inwardly groaned again, this time to himself—to save his pride—for such a thought. He had no other life to think of. This was his life, and it always had been.

(Had it?)

(The hesitant Leon inside twitched as a pale phantom in a red red dress with spicy-sweet perfume scoffed and purred something into his ear. He couldn't decipher the husky mass of vague syllables and clipped inflection, but he understood that they carried an overall negative connotation.)

"…so I'll ask again: are all of you that Wesker guy's children? His little blonde army?"

Leon allowed a small smile to cross his face at that. It was apt.  
The man placed a hand on his apothecary mask and gave it a sharp tug. The small harnesses that kept it attached to his face gave with a snap, and the protective (albeit uncomfortable) thing was off. Leon shrugged the hood of his heavy cloak off and turned to face the sun, eyes fluttering closed instinctively, soaking in the gentle rays of warmth cast by the star. It was early in the morning, cloudy and cool, and so Leon was happy to bask in them before they became harsh and unforgiving when the clouds cleared and the sun reached the middle of the sky. It had been a long morning, helping Ricardo administer Uroboros. After this trip, a familiar pang of guilt soured his mouth.

"You ain't gonna answer me, are ya?"

"No, we're not his children." _Biologically speaking_. "More like his agents. He does have some," He added, overwhelmed with the desire to kick himself a moment later. It wasn't his place to speak of The Children.

"You know what, forget I even said that. Please."

Ricardo observed him, quiet for once, and gave a small shrug. The action was made wavy with the rocking of the small boat they occupied, Leon steering while Ricardo spread himself out in the seating area.

"None a' my business," He commented easily.

**-l-**

Leon liked Ricardo a little more after that conversation.

**-l-**

The girl watched the two men swiftly disappear on their motorized boat from the tall grass and felt a frightening hate swirl within her.

"_Demons_," one of the village elders had called them after they first began to come at them with false promises and veiled threats and, later, needles, "_white demons_."

Deep down, she knew there was something wrong with the intensity of the anger she felt. Everything had been far more intense than she remembered. Even now, the smell of the swamp; the metallic, earthy tang, once a familiar thing, now assaulted her senses in its sharpness. A perpetual sheen of tears gave her light brown eyes an eerily glassy quality. She was feverish and flinching constantly at the brush of fingertips on her skin when there was no one around to touch her.  
It was probably the brethren of these demons in the flesh, come to taunt her for daring to think of fighting back, she thought viciously.  
The girl stared at the spot where her view of the demons and their boat was lost and felt a frightening life swirl within her.

**-l-**

"Leon, what's up? You were supposed to join me for a game of Listen to Sherry Rant today!"

Despite the dark feelings crowding his heart, a genuine smile grew on the man in question at the sight of his friend.

"Sorry, Steve. I'm on punishment."

Steve snorted good-naturedly, giving a roll of blue-grey eyes as he accosting his fellow agent into a brief, but friendly one-armed hug. Leon returned the gesture, wanting to linger as he was seriously starved for contact, but instead righting himself and releasing a long sigh.

"So, why exactly is good old Master's favorite boy toy stuck with grunt work, eh? Spill the beans," Steve requested, wincing sympathetically. He knew what grunt work was like.

This time around, it meant tending to Excella Gionne, Ricardo Irving, and the rest of the buttmonkeys that they associated with.

Leon raised a hand to his face, a habitual move, and when his palm landed on his nose, he scowled in self depreciating disgust. Stupid, stupid mask. He'd become so used to it hiding the emotion in his face. His gear had been left to the attendants upon his reentering the compound, and now, standing here in a simple leather suit, he felt naked to the world, his face exposed and his shoulders slouching with a weight that was in no way physical.  
"I tried to learn about my First Life," he confessed, "I've been going a little off-kilter lately, and I thought it would help."  
Steve looked closely at him as they began to walk together.A pregnant silence settled over them before he sighed, "Oh, Leon."

He'd been feeling like this a lot, lately, he realized, stir crazy and confused in the bland white washed hallways of his temporary home. He missed the early days, when he'd been a Newborn learning to live anew, tucked away in beautiful, colorful France, learning any and every thing Wesker wanted him to in the borrowed manor they occupied.

(He vaguely remembered Steve jokingly referring to the place "La Bastille" with a roll of his eyes.)

He also missed getting closer to Wesker, to sneaking into his quarters (Which really amounted to a personal lab attached to a study with a single bed that Leon frequented more than its owner), situating himself as close to the man as was physically possible. The blond man often ignored him after minutely acknowledging his presence: a quite glance at him over dark shades with piercing golden eyes; a deliberate finger pointed in the direction of where he should sit, be it the couch of the floor, just out of his way; an instruction on how to do a menial task that needed to be fulfilled (Leon suspected it was to keep him occupied, as he was always filled with bright musings and questions left—purposely—unanswered.)

And other times, Wesker would pause, and beckon him closer, handsome face deadpan but softened, stance guarded but somehow open, an enigmatic figure of contradictions and quirks. It was these moments Leon missed the most, yes, these moments when his savior would pull him close and simply hold him, let Leon mold perfectly against his muscular body and take in his scent, a strangely sweet scent that held undertones of chemical and spice.

"Do you feel It inside of you?" He would ask every time he did this, and Leon was always alerted to just what It was. It was the thing that existed inside of him, a writhing hot mass of life, a constant presence that occurred most starkly to him behind his eyes, in his chest cavity, and low in his abdomen, like a child waiting to be born from a body that would never birth it. It was always there, registering to him on a separate level than other things. In the beginning, it was an agitatedly vibrating burn that had him snarling and aching on his own, scratching at himself in hopes of removing it somehow, getting it out, destroying it with his bare hands. In the beginning, he had dreams of It, existing outside of his body and yet, still haggling him, slick with his own lifeblood, smiling a wide grin, clinging to his back and never letting go, whispering.

( _giveingiveingivein_)

(Leon hated It so much.)

He learned to tune It out as he got older, but he noticed that its normally frustrated disposition was calmed around certain others: Sherry, Steve, one of The Children, the subjects that they sometimes handled, and, most obviously, Wesker himself.

It was the best when Wesker was near. It settled inside, something about the waning intensity of its bullying sheepish. That was when he felt the best, the most like himself. Where had that gone?

Where had those moments of awkward intimacy gone, those moments that Leon _craved_, worked so hard to please his savior for? Eight long years for these stolen moments across the world. From his NewBirth country of France, to Italy, to the U.S., to Mexico, to Russia, to Spain, to Sweden, all over Africa, he was obedient, eager to please.

He did it all for random hugs and calm of mind. Apparently that had been too much.

When they'd reached Africa, vulnerable Africa, Leon, had been met with various forms of rebuttal. Wesker would turn him around sternly, with no explanation, other than a tight frown and a finger pointed opposite the direction of his quarters. The first few times it happened, Leon hadn't been too worried. It wouldn't be the first time he was turned away.

Wesker was a volatile man by all accounts. If he wasn't neutral (That was what Steve called a "good mood" nowadays), face blank and composed as always, he was Angry. This special kind of Angry was a foreign thing, spurred on by the burning lives within their bodies, and it had to be expelled in any way manageable.

Leon never handled being Angry well. His first Anger, he'd lain writhing on the ground, thankfully no t in the company of others, teeth suddenly sharp and gnashing at flesh that wasn't there, eyes rolling in the back of his head, fingers punching into the Earth below him. The pure rage inside was a scary thing, and it was even scarier when he realized that he had nothing to direct it at and therefore no real reason to feel the way he did. It always happened that way. The first time it happened, it had been days before anyone found him, as he was on a mission. Wesker has personally come to see him, obviously intending to bring down punishment upon him, but once he saw what Leon was experiencing, he subsided into a cool calm, and sat close. His closeness had calmed It. From then on, they took Leon into isolation to let him ride it out.

Steve left their living space for the outside, looking for barren, abandoned land, and then he was the Other Steve, loud and strong, no longer the easy going, deeply sarcastic man that was always ready to tell a story full of wild hand gesturing and blush-inducing detail. Leon never saw the Other Steve, but he always heard him, no matter how far away, roaring to the sky and pummeling the ground.

Sherry isolated herself within the prisons they kept reserved for subjects, usually deep underground, and no one heard from her for days. Leon didn't know what she did, but he knew when she was going to. She would get that deeply disturbed look in her eye, stop everything that she was working on, and report to Wesker, and she was gone.

One of the Children (her name always escaped him) would be desperate for conflict, and spent her time doing her best to incite rage within others. She got high off of it when she was Angry, lived for it, he could tell.

Once, she said to him,

"I still don't understand why you're here."

"Why?" Was his simple reply, a tinge of hurt giving him pause when he knew he should have excused himself from her as quickly as possible.

"You should have died. They should have left you."

Leon didn't think much of it then. He'd given her a deeply confused stare before turning his heel and walking away to report that she was out of area.

(But he thought of it a lot lately. Where should they have left him?)

When she reached her peak, the scientists on the team were forced to allow her to idle with the subjects, lock her inside of the occupied prison cells with them and watch in horror as what they assumed to be predators become reduced to prey.

(They'd lost a lot of their team doing this, he remembered, remembered watching a traumatized young scientist leave their Italy home in a teary flourish. He'd liked her, she'd been a part of the team that worked to keep him healthy as a Newborn. It saddened him, years later, when it occurred to him that she'd probably never left the compound grounds.)

Wesker was different. He expelled his anger on whoever was nearby.

Leon trusted the man, but he didn't want to be around when he was Angry.

He soon realized that it wasn't Anger. Wesker was the same as usual when he turned him away, if a bit tight-lipped. He wasn't wanted. That was what it felt like. The very thought brought a pensive frown to his face.

"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?" Steve's amused question brought Leon out of his revere. Taking a moment to process his words, Leon rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Sor—"

"Don't be sorry. But seriously Leon, listen." Steve halted in his tracks and turned to face his friend, placing his hands on his shoulders. Maintaining eye contact with the man, Steve began to speak lowly enough so that only Leon could hear. "I'll help you find out more about your First Life, but you have to meet me halfway. We can't let anyone know about this, and you have got to learn how to keep yourself guarded. Now, Wesker ain't been too happy lately, and now that I know way, it ain't gonna be easy to find the info that you want." The redhead's lips quirked upwards conspirationally, "It just so happens that I think we have a primary source in the building, my friend. Let's go play some more Listen to Sherry Rant. This game will be a special edition."

**-l-**

"Doctor, what shall I do with these tubes?"

"Ahh, put them in container Zero. There should still be traces of the corresponding suspension inside of them," Came the absentminded reply.

Sherry Birkin was not yet used to being called doctor. It was what she was, a doctor on all accounts, and yet, she couldn't help but feel that she was just Sherry.

Experimented on, lonely Sherry.

Nothing special.

The young woman stared closely at the container before her, closely watching the reaction that was occurring within; the liquid turned a brilliant pink, the catalyst swirling blood red within, before it lapsed back into a dull brown.

Not enough. She would need to—

"Yo, Sherry! Look who's back from being Irving's personal chauffer!"

Sherry happily looked up to meet the haunted, hopeful eyes of their missing friend. The small smile on her face fell.

"Sherry, there's something I need to ask you about."

Shakily adjusting her goggles, Sherry turned to face her crew and gave them all the soft command to take their leave of the lab once they'd finished their current tasks. When she turned back around, Steve and Leon were all she could see.

**-l-**

"Hey, kid, you alright?"

The kid in question covered his face in his hands. His decidedly skeletal hands were then shielded by a curtain of downy platinum-blond curls on either side, some of the loose ringlets died an odd garnet with dried blood. His knees were pulled up to his chest, both terribly scrapped, and suddenly Chris found himself hoping that he wouldn't have to console him.

Awkwardly, he stood watch, deliberately ignoring the odd stares being directed their way (And the occasional questions fired by worried parents, asking if the trembling boy on the pavement knew the man, and did he need them to call the authorities?), hands shoved into his coat pockets, his breath billowing before him in waves of misty gray.

"Kid?" He tried again after a few moments, true worry starting to set in. He would be fine; the external injuries were nothing that wouldn't eventually heal over time and with care, but how was the kid mentally? He had been ambushed before Chris came along to help. Still, the young man was a fighter. Small, yes, wraithlike from a distance, but up close, it was easy to see that the lithe musculature on his body was the product of regular exercise. He put it to use often, if the savage way that he fought was any indication, along with the scars littered across his legs and arms.

The group of bullheaded teenagers that attacked him had quickly dispersed when they saw Chris standing menacingly in the opening of the alleyway they'd cornered the boy in, one bold one spitting at his bare feet before scattering doggedly after his accomplices. He was worse for wear, as were the rest of them. The boy had been outnumbered by four people and yet, he held his ground, sending them away with bruises and cuts and black eyes that they wouldn't soon forget.

Unexpectedly, the boy had whirled on him then, twin rows of blunt little teeth bared, split lip and all, skeletal fists brandished threateningly. His bright blue eyes had been wild, a glazed quality to them that was all too familiar in a way that was hard to pinpoint. Seeing that the man had no intent of attacking him, he'd subsided, suddenly timid at his actions.

Taking pity on him, Chris had jerked his head towards himself, and the kid obediently trudged towards him. Chris grabbed his arm, eyebrows hiking up at how his fingers touched the heel of his palm around it, and quietly sheparded him out of the alleyway.  
They'd walked together for all of twenty minutes before the kid rasped, "Wait," jerked his arm out of his grip, and then promptly sat on the pavement, staring blankly ahead.

How was Chris going to remove himself from this situation? His plan was to drag the kid to the hospital, get him cleaned up, and then get him home before returning home himself. He had a long week full of missing briefings, and it was likely that this night would be the only night of rest allotted to him for a long time ahead.

Looked like that wasn't going to happen. Chris grunted and seated himself on the pavement before the boy cross-legged, placing his hands patiently on his knees. He had experience with teenagers.

"So, kid. You sure can hold your own."

No reply.

"You fight dirty. You've been fighting dirty for a while, I can tell."

Again, no reply.

"I'll bet crap like that happens to you often, huh? Forgive me for saying so, but you look kinda scruffy," He continued conversationally.

That got him a reaction. The boy's slender fingers parted to reveal his glassy eyes. He glared at Chris.

"And so you can hear me. Listen, kid, I think you should go to hospital and get yourself looked over."

"No, I hate hospitals."

"Okay, that's cool. Ixnay on the hospital visit, then. Will you let me look you over?"

"I don't know you."

Chris shrugged; spread his hands out in a calming gesture.

"How about this: My name's Chris and I'm an adult who's trying to help you."

The boy scoffed, his hands falling from his face. He gave Chris an inquisitive once-over, before righting himself, back straightening. His legs crossed, and he gingerly placed his hands on his scrapped knees, mimicking the man's pose.

"How about _this_: My name is Faith, and I'm a teenager who doesn't really need the help of adults." He growled indignantly, sneering. Getting a closer look, Chris noted that the boy's incisors were slightly sharper than the rest of his teeth, pointed at the bottom, casting a catlike manner across the boy's youthful face that he hadn't truly caught prior to their meeting. Said teeth flavored the scratchy tenor of his voice with a faint lisp that was only noticeable if you were truly listening for it.

"Well, Faith, you don't seem very faithful-get it, 'cause that's related to your name," Faith rolled his eyes, "to the person who just sopped you from getting your butt whupped. I was going to take you to the hospital and cover the expenses if you didn't have insurance. But, you don't like hospitals. So I was going to take you to my place and patch you up myself. Trust me, I have the experience. Then, I was going to drop you off to a location of your request. If you don't want me to extend my kindness, then that's fine with me. And Faith is a weird name for a boy." He jabbed, just to me malicious, a little offended at the kid's quick change in attitude. A defense mechanism is what it probably was, that, or an instinctual way to assuage his bruised pride.

Wary, the teenager leaned closer to his companion.

Chris obligingly maintained his stance. "What are you doing?"

"Checking for fake," Faith replied as if Chris were the stupidest person he'd ever spoken to.

The two were garnering even stranger looks from passersby now, a petite, bruised teenager with a head of light blond hair and a burly man in a winter coat with tired eyes, sitting facing each other in identical poses, the younger of the two twisting and turning to get a good look at his features.

Some assumed the boy was looking so he could accurately describe this stranger to the police.

Others wondered if they needed change.

One was equal parts angry and confused.

"This is all organic human."

Faith leaned back, "I know."

"How old are you, kid?"

"Faith."

"Answer the question."

"How old are you?" Faith challenged, voice rising impishly, eyes widening in question.

"Not old enough to be your dad unless I explored late in high school, if I'm guessing correctly."

"I'm seventeen."

"No, really."

"I'm seventeen."

"And why were those kids attacking you?"

"I guess mostly because I'm too different."

"And you're really seventeen."

"Yes!"

"Huh."

**-l-**

Faith didn't know what to think of the stranger. Chris.

Most adults quickly left him in the company of himself, disgusted with his saucy attitude, flushed and angry at some ugly thing he may have said. It was a part of his nature, he found himself excusing more than once. He couldn't help it. People were idiots. His mother had been an idiot and his father was the biggest idiot of all.  
Children learned first from their parents, he remembered a disgruntled teacher stating to his parents in elementary school during a meeting called on by his trouble making, why couldn't his parents start setting a suitable example?

The only example he got from his idiot parents was that people were idiots and so were adults.

This one person, also an adult, was an interesting challenge and a refreshing change.

He was thankful for the help, but he'd get him to blow up.

He had nothing else going for him. Faith observed him from behind and felt a childish curiosity swirl within him.

-l-

**Faith isn't who you might think he is. **

**Anyways, I hope that you enjoyed. This is **_**self-betaed**_**, and typed up in a hurry.  
Though Leon is the main character in this story, this is definitely not Leon-centric. I never planned for it to be. I'm actually still in the process of planning this whole thing out, but I want this to be as fleshed-out as I can make it. **

**Posting speed will be erratic and sparse. Apologies. I really wish that I had a computer. **

**I was, and still am, pretty nervous about posting this. Please, please, please, tell me what you think. **

**Look out for the additional notes coming up next. **

**Much love, Aya **

**6/14/2013**


	2. Additional Notes from The Author

**Additional Notes From The Author **

I whipped this up in hopes of answering some questions that might pop up.

**Terms to Know **

First Life: Period of time spent by agents before joining Wesker

Transition: Period of time during which a person is "remade" to better serve Wesker. They are typically close to death during this period.

Newborn: A person with newly swiped memories in Wesker's "army". For the most part, they may as well be newborn, as they lack some of the skills they had in their First Life, including some motor skills. They are usually assigned a number of attendants to bring them back to speed. So far, Leon is the only living newborn. (Sherry retained her memories and Steve was only left with a few blanks in his memory. Jill died shortly after her Transition, unable to handle the strain on her mind and body. Earlier newborns had to be incarcerated.)

Anger: A period in time during which the viruses residing inside a carrier drive their hosts to madness by trying to fully compromise their system. Angers are characterized by uncontrollable anger, but this is not always the case.

Army: The term others use to describe the agents working under Wesker. Ricardo is the only one bold (or perhaps oblivious) enough to use it around them.

The Children: A term used to refer to the collective body of Wesker's offspring and clones. Each and every single Child is birthed by a paid surrogate, usually a member of the organizations Wesker associates with. There are twelve, six biological children and six unknowing clones. (This will be explained in full in the future, I know it seems a little convoluted right now.)

**Other Notes **

-Due to loss of pigment during Transitioning, Leon now has blond hair and lighter eyes.

-As this is AU, there are a lot of differences from canon. I hope this doesn't offend.

-Wesker travels around the world with his associates, different pharmaceutical companies and the like. In return, they offer funding and living space. After every stay, he picks up members of his team. They make up the "army" that others refer to. There are the people who carry out the dirty work, agents like Leon and Steve. They charm, kill, and talk their way during their work. There are the doctors, both medical and scientific, on hand to ensure that the crew is in peak condition and that and B.O.W.s on hand are tended to. Of course, there are guards who monitor these B.O.W.s

That's all I have for now without spoiling things. If you have truly pressing questions, send them my way in a message or your review!

I look forward to uploading the next chapter.


End file.
